


The Weight of Water

by BubblyWashingMachine



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Angst, Blood, Drabbles, Gen, Gothic, School Projects, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, as in, idk what these are, literally I wrote these for school, this will always be complete because they are oneshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-24 00:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13800012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BubblyWashingMachine/pseuds/BubblyWashingMachine
Summary: A bunch of my own original drabbles. Mostly written for English when we did 'creative writing' last year. Some of them have dark themes - all are unrelated and the characters are usually unimportant. I know no-ones gonna read it anyways but eeehhhh





	1. Gothic

**Author's Note:**

> First one. Meant to be Gothic - focusing mainly on setting. (Please remember I wrote these last year so it's a little cringey)

As I wandered around the house, with no specific goal in mind, I stumbled across a large wooden set of doors, one of the few things still recognisable. Long, dark stains now hid the carved oak trees, and the bronze handles were mangled and twisted from the tongues of flames. That cool feeling against my skin made me shiver, but I pushed my discomfort aside and shouldered my way into the room. The library, once grand and richly adorned, now slouched against the night sky visible through the gaping hole in the ceiling. Bookcases from my childhood stood barren and burnt, their shelves empty of the novels that had once filled my imaginative mind with stories and fantasies. Curtains - blackened and torn to shreds - now swung limply in the breeze, like the hides of dead animals hanging in a butcher’s back room.

I turned sharply upon imagining footsteps, my candle flickering with fright, and saw a figure standing at the door. My own breaths, amplified in the semi-darkness, and the blood pounding in my ears were the only sound in the room. I shifted warily, and the strange, tall silhouette moved to follow, closer to the door. We regarded each other silently. Who was this skinny, towering stranger, staring at me with such suspicion? I could not see their face, but they were not moving. I took a step toward them, and as they copied my movement I let out a harsh laugh. This place was already getting to me. When I reached the wall, the face in the mirror was one I barely recognised. I glared at myself for being scared, at my wide, watery grey eyes and hollow cheeks that used to be so flushed and warm. Thin lips curved into a smile, framed by pale, almost white hair. I was hungry, thin and wasted, and it showed, and I couldn’t bear it. Only a few months ago I was so young, so free, so _alive._ I turned away, disgusted.

There was no one here but me, I reminded myself. After the fire, people of the town stayed well away. As if confirming _why,_ distant howls rang in the distance once again. It was getting increasingly difficult to convince myself it was just the wind.

The moon, full, was the only other light source visible. It lit my path through the house, staining the old carpets silver and shying away from corners. The jagged holes in the walls made it easier to see, easier to tiptoe around the shards of broken glass and charred skeletons of chairs. In the hallways, the stained glass windows, once so colourful and bright, crunched painfully underfoot, each shard splintering and breaking the silence. I winced every time one broke; something felt wrong about disturbing this place. It had stayed protected, tranquil, and silent for so many years, and there was something peaceful about the utter stillness that hung in the air. Shattered images of ancient gods, ancestors, and animals now lay scattered in disjointed, distorted fragments, all over the dusty floorboards. Their smiling faces stared up at me, glinting in the moonlight that was shining through the open wound that used to be windows, splashing cheerful colours across the wall. The eerie grins on children’s book characters watched from high shelves as I wrapped my arms around myself, almost dropping the candle, and stepped around another of Elsie’s china dolls. Her face was half-caved in; the hole where her left eye should have been now housed a spider. Was this the blond Annalise, the same little doll that my sister would carry around with her everywhere? I looked around, suddenly shocked. Could it be the same doll? I could barely believe it was the same place I had grown up; the same house where I had made so many happy memories. If it weren’t for the mangled family portraits, the crushed remnants of old toys, I might say this wasn’t the same house at all…

“That floorboard’s broken.”

Elsie’s voice stopped me in my tracks, foot still raised above said board. Upon closer inspection, I could see she was right, and if I’d stepped on it I would have possibly fallen through the floor. She stood at the end of the hall, small and alone.

“Thank you.” I said politely. Carefully.

“You’re welcome,” she skipped across to me. I did my best not to flinch away.

“Will you be saying long?” She asked happily, walking along beside me.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“You should stay. We miss you.”

I didn’t look at her, instead choosing to stare into the sky. “No, you don’t.”

“No. We don’t. But we wish we did. We really do.”

We come to the end of the hallway. Behind that door lay my bedroom.

“Do you blame me?” I asked, turning the knob.

“Yes.” She smiled.

“Was it my fault?”

“Yes.” She smiled wider.

I shoved open the door and stepped inside.


	2. The Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boop boop this one's prolly my favourite. Summary: Mysterious character sits in a bath and contemplates their miserable life

I sink down slowly, letting the lukewarm water crawl up my shoulders, my neck. It’s heavy, and thick, and kind of the same temperature of my skin, so I can imagine it’s a part of my body. I like to imagine that it covers me, encases me, preserves me for future generations to discover. It holds part of me up, letting me lean on it, taking the weight off my back slightly and relieving me of the painful burden of gravity, of life, of love.

It tricks me into thinking it’s my friend, calling _relax, relax, let go, let go,_ and then when I open my mouth and invite it inside, it burns the insides of my nose, the back of my mouth. It slinks casually down my throat, like an old lover slipping into a booth next to me in a diner (or so I’ve read), and waits patiently for more, more, more. For a moment, I am hanging; left strung up in perfect silence (even my pulse has the decency to remain quiet, as is it knows not to disturb this peace), completely at the mercy of this… this creature blocking my airways, skin turning delicate blue, tightening its claws around my trachea.

I know its romance is just for show, that it always hurts me in the end. But I always come back for more. I guess that says something about me.

I come up spluttering, replacing the infinite suspension-feeling for stale, dry air, soundlessly coughing, hacking up the tendrils still clinging to me. Feeling ashamed and red-hot in the face, I let the water pour back out of my mouth and into the bath. It reluctantly lets me go, rippling away in tiny waves, laughing at me in shivery _splaps._

It hurts. It still hurts. It hurts me, that I couldn’t take it. I should have lasted longer, because human beings can hold their breath for an awfully long time. I, however, seem to only be able to manage a few minutes before my lungs shrivel up inside and cry for help. It’s because I’m scared – I’m always so scared all the time. I know it’s pointless to be scared, but it’ll happen eventually anyway. There isn’t any point being scared, it’s just these survival instincts. This continuous background hum like a parent warning a child not to touch something, over and over again. They are my biggest obstacle in the way of me, and water, and my heart stopping.

However, it’s usually fear of regretting something, not the fear of death, that stops me. (I’d like to think so, anyway, that I’m in control. That it’s not just ancient instincts.) Fear of not being able to take something back, of being unable to stop what I’ve started. It stops me from drowning, stops me from hitting the wall too hard, stops me before the unbearable heartache forces me to say something so bad not even my perfect mother could put me back together again.

Though, is that feeling really heartache? More like heartagony. It certainly hurts worse than an ache. It sounds like a love thing, but it’s not, really. It’s like, when you have something extremely dark wrapping around your face, like a wet towel, and it’s cutting off your hearing and sight, and you keep trying to tear it off, but you can’t. And you keep _trying,_ but it’s making it too hard to breathe, so instead you end up flailing around on the floor, feeling even worse for the fact that you know if you could just _get up,_ you could rip it off. I don’t know if that’s what it feels like to fall in love, for everyone. Maybe that’s just me.

Sometimes I think the pain of not having something bad when you want it is worse than actually having it. I think I would rather have the water over my head, creeping up to my brain, than to need its relief so badly and know that there’s no way of getting it. Just like the constant, never-ending, all-consuming pain of being infatuated with the dark-haired girl is probably worse than the pain of being rejected by her, not that I’ll ever know. (As if I could actually talk to her – ha!).

Leaning back, I rest my head on the cool ceramic rim. It sends shivers down my spine, trailing cold, dead fingers along my back. The water, only a few minutes ago comfortably warm, is now bitterly cold, and invasive. I try to absorb the cold, become the cold, instead of rejecting it and shivering.

I wait calmly for the pain to subside as it always does, for my nose to stop streaming and trying to expel the unwanted liquid from my system, for the back of my mouth to stop internally screaming. I have to clamp down on those sandpaper screams, lest they become an actual whine, a physical thing in the air rather than just an echo of old pain. If I start now, I might never stop until all my pain, my horrible self, my awful truths are out in the air, sticking to people around me instead of clogging up here, my heart, here, my stomach, and here, my head. I imagine they’d cry out in horror, madly swiping around them, frantically trying to wipe off the remnants of myself, all the ugliness, while I lay drained on the ground. (There’d be nothing left, you see – taking away all the badness in me would result in there being naught left behind). “Ugh! Ew! Get it off, get it _off,_ ” They’d shriek.

If I make any sound now, the spell will be broken, and I’ll have to get out of this bath and face reality.

Right now, in the dim light of a shivering old bathroom in a shaky, nervous house filled with insecure, scared people in a dangerous, ugly town, I am somewhat whole, in that I don’t have to pretend to be. When I don’t have to lie, lie, lie, I am someone else. It’s nice to pretend that secretly I am some other person, someone brave and not really afraid of death or love. I can think about the dark-haired girl without fear. Instead, I laugh at her, I mock her, I insult the very idea of her. Instead, I flirt with the water, the darkness, the suffocation. Instead, I let the cold seep into my bones, my nerves freezing over individually, my eyes frosting from the inside out and I turn into the water, and I evaporate and I am just mould on the ceiling. When my mother comes home from work, and my father gets back from the city, and my sister returns from her friend’s house, I’ll be back to being – someone hot, laughing too much, trying too hard, melting instead of shielding, someone fizzling out all the time, someone with such a short fuse, so consumed with some kind of fire like the water in me is lava, a constant stifled rage that comes from having to endure being something so disgusting. Me.

They, my family, don’t know about my recent love affair with water. If they did, they wouldn’t let me stay at home by myself so much.

They don’t know about my obsession with the dark-haired girl, who sits in front of me in English, and they don’t know that I have memorised her timetable, or that I follow her home sometimes, or that I know what her hair smells like, or that I watch her during lunchtime, or that I dream up conversations with her in my head. If they did, they would probably make me change schools.

They don’t know about what happened at school today, how the dark-haired girl called me disgusting and creepy, how her friends chittered and surrounded me, how she looked at me in the eyes (for the first time) and hated what she saw there, how I couldn’t fight back or laugh it off because of the water, the stinging, biting water trying to crawl out of my eyes. If they did, they would probably make us move house.

They don’t know me. If they did, they’d probably lock me away for good.


	3. Monophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theme: a phobia. I chose monophobia - the fear of being alone.

It took them a long time to realise what was wrong with me.

It took _me_ a long time to realise what was wrong with me.

It would happen when we went to the shops, though of course it was milder back then.

_Mother held my hand, squeezing tightly. “I won’t be gone long,” she said. “Nana is just in the next room.” But when she left, and the house was silent, I could barely tell Nana was in the house at all. She was asleep, like usual, and I couldn’t even hear her breathing. It was just me and the clock, ticking… ticking… ticking away. I could feel it hammering into the side of my head. I pulled out some of my hair. I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood. But the clock ticked and ticked and ticked and – Mother found me a couple of minutes later, the clock smashed across the floor, tears streaming down my face. Nana was still asleep._

It would happen at school when I was last out of the change rooms.

_I begged Martha to stay. But she looked at me funny and said, “Class is starting, Paige,” and she just left me there. All alone. I struggled to pull my shirt on with hands stiffening in panic. The walls were closing in on me. But if I stayed very still, I could hear the voices of kids, and the squeaking of their shoes on the courts. The noise reassured me. I wasn’t alone._

School was always the worst. I’d have to rush everywhere, to make sure I was never alone. I stayed in a large group of girls, ones who made fun of me and said rude things to teachers. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t care less. On days when mother was at work until five, after Nana passed, I’d hang out behind the school with the others and talk about boys, or invite myself to other girls’ houses. It was easy, seamless. Before anyone questioned it I would be gone, cut it back for a couple days. I never got in trouble, because I didn’t want to get detention, or have to go by myself to the nurse’s room for ice to put on my hand, so I sat silently throughout class and recess. The teachers hardly ever called for answers, but if they did, I would never, ever put my hand up. Most people assumed I was shy, but others thought I was stuck-up. In truth, I was just afraid.

Eventually we figured we could control it; the therapists claimed I was fine. They said it’s a phobia, monophobia. But it’s not. I tried to tell them, to warn them. They should’ve known I’m not safe, I’m not safe. I tried to tell them but… they never listened. They never listened. They laughed at me, gave me pills that do nothing. They tell me I’m fine, normal, okay. I’m just scared, scared of being alone.

But I know I’m broken.

And it’s too late now. It’s happening, _now_.

In the quiet suburban home, she screams at me, holding a bony, tired hand to the side of her face, which is twisted in pain and anger. Her footsteps are too loud, clad in shiny sneakers that shriek on the floorboards, which are dented and scratched from years of running around and jumping up and down. She backs against the wall, her eyes wide with animal-like fear.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, mother! I didn’t mean it!” I cry. It’s true, I didn’t mean it. I can’t control it. It’s not my fault. I wish they’d listened.

“S-stay away from me,” she gasps, taking her hand from her face. It comes away stained with dark red. My own hands hang limply from my sides, shaking, my blunt and bitten nails gritty and sticky with her blood. The walls rattle. I can taste her fear in the air.

“You were going… going to leave me here,” I say quietly.

She shouldn’t have left me alone. I knew this would happen. She shouldn’t have left me alone. I knew – I knew as soon as she stepping over the welcome mat.

“What’s wrong with you?” She sobs. “I was going to Nancy’s house for her garden tools! I told you.”

“You were going to leave me alone!” I scream. My hands clench into fists and my mother flinches.

“It was only going to be fifteen minutes! You would have been fine!” She screams back. I take a step closer, so I can hear the manic beating of her heart.

She doesn’t understand. “Except… obviously… I _wasn’t…_ ” I whisper, because it hurts too much to speak properly. She must hate that. She’s always telling me to _speak up, speak UP,_ because I mumble.

“Don’t hurt me. You won’t hurt me. It’s me – I’m your mother,” She claws at the wall behind her, eyes darting around, looking for escape. There is a door that leads to the bathroom, one that leads to the closet, and a hallway that opens to all the bedrooms. At the end of the hall, the front door gapes wide open, and there are scratch marks around the frame. In order to escape, to leave me here, she’d have to run past me (ha ha) and somehow make it to the end of the hall.

“You’re insane.” She gasps. Finally. Finally. She’s not telling me I’m fine anymore, is she? But maybe the therapists, the scientists, maybe they were right. Maybe I’m perfect, just the way I am…

“I’m lonely.” I say. “I’m just lonely.” There’s no way she could reach the phone, either. We only have one, and it’s in the living room, over to her right.

“My baby girl, don’t do this. We can fix this. We can fix you. Calm down – please!”

I’m not broken. I DON’T NEED FIXING. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just lonely. I’ve been alone for a long time. I’m sick of being alone. But there’s nothing wrong with me. I just want some company.

So she has to stay. Forever.


	4. Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS ONE IS CREEPY. BLOOD. TORTURE. but also it's really short sooo. Theme: horror writing. oooooo spoopy

“I’m so sorry. I’m so so so so so so sorry,” Ophelia wails. I gasp, eyes pricking with tears, as she twists the knife further into my stomach. Dark red liquid spills down the front of my filthy uniform and onto the stained concrete floor. It pools around her feet in a black puddle and she starts crying.

“Oh my god I’m so sorry, Evie, I’m so sorry!” She sobs, and pulls out the knife, quickly. Bubbling, thick blood drops off the end of the blade and onto my skirt. White spots fill my vision. I think I’m going to pass out again. She places her hand tenderly on my cheek, and bends down slightly to look me in the eyes. I slump down in my chair, eyes drooping. I can feel my mind shutting down. My matted hair tangles in her fingers. She winds the greasy strands gently into her fist.

And pulls.

I scream out, the sound ringing into the frigid basement. My fingers clench around the ropes as I twist and writhe.

“Don’t fall asleep, Evie!” She snarls, my best friend gone. In an instant, the sweet girl I’ve known since childhood has disappeared, like she did last night and the night before. The monster before me, eyes dilated with fury, wraps her fingers around my arm, nails digging into the soft flesh. I whimper, pathetic, and suddenly she softens. She lets go, taking a step back.

“I’m so sorry! Evie, god, I… I never meant for this to happen. I… I’ll be back soon.” She’s crying again. She takes a few more steps back, toward the stairs. I try to say something, but the words stick in my throat, too thick to escape. A mangled gurgle is the best I can do.

“Don’t fall asleep!”


	5. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is this feeling?

She knew this feeling.

It was fear, perhaps, or anger, that filled her lungs with stones and tightened around her throat.

It was hard to tell the difference.

It prickled uncomfortably in the corners of her eyes. It clenched the tips of her fingers and made her mouth go numb, and it made all the gravity in the room thin.

Her vision swam, colours shifting and faces blurring. It was nice here, with a head down and no one staring.

It was nice here, with hair covering her eyes and a sharp keychain digging into her palm. Don’t fight it. Don’t fight it. And she could feel herself wanting to fight it, to scream it out or cough up all the feelings, let them pour out of all her eyes.

Sometimes it didn’t hurt so bad.

Sometimes it was a comforting warmth that made the centre change. 

Sometimes it was a sickening coldness. But it didn’t matter. It would be gone, as soon as she was.


	6. Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was not written for school. I can't remember writing this, actually. Anyway.

I wandered over to the table, canvas in hand. It was already packed with other kids pouring the paint into little containers, or trying to decide what colours to use.

As I went around all the people, along the wall, I couldn’t help but notice _her_  canvas there, next to the only empty spot, which was… unfortunate. Oh well.

There was some newspaper laid out across her part of the table and mine, and I placed my material down, and was about to get a few paintbrushes, when suddenly she was there.

I couldn’t look at her as she pulled away the newspaper under mine and her wood and muttered hostilely, “Alright I guess I’ll move then, I’ll just take this newspaper that _I_ got for myself. You can have _this_ bit though,”

Or something along those lines anyway. I couldn’t hear her properly over the blood rushing to my face, as she pushed some paper from a stack nearby in my general direction and moved, moved her things to a different table. I just kind of stood there, blushing, as she turned away, only managing a “Oh, sorry…!” before she was gone.

Again.

I shoved away from my edge and walked quickly to the taps, hiding my face from everyone. A couple of people said hi as I walked past, but I didn’t want anyone to see the tears on my cheeks, stinging my eyes, so I just smiled and nodded and didn’t look up from the ground.


End file.
